It was a long walk in the cold. When we reached our chosen spot—up the hill from the Deadwash, in a sheltered hollow by a stream—I unpacked the bag I had brought. Then I made a little campfire and cooked two pancakes: a tiny one for him, a bigger one for me. I’d had no appetite for Florica’s pastries, but I was hungry now. I draped a garnish of pondweed on top of my creations and called Gogu, keeping my voice low. It was not unknown for certain of the bolder folk of the Other Kingdom to venture out into the human world; they had their own portals. Dwarves might be out and about at any time, and so might Dr?agu?ta, the witch of the wood (if the rumors about her were true). She could be watching me even now. Cezar was sure it was she who had reached from the water and dragged Costi under on that terrible day when I was five years old. If she could do that, she was capable of anything. And if there was any chance that Dr?agu?ta might be close by, I’d be foolish not to be on my guard.
44
“Come on, Gogu! The pancakes are getting cold!”
Gogu was rummaging about in the leaf mold. Autumn was here, and a thick layer of decaying material lay over all the paths, full of scurrying insects and the eccentric miniature castles of tiny fungi sprouting from the rich soil. He spotted a juicy bug, glanced at me, then shot out his tongue and scooped it up.
We had developed a fine understanding for such moments. I pretended I wasn’t looking, and he pretended he didn’t know I was. A moment later he was by my side, investigating my cookery.
There was no doubt in my mind that Gogu was an Other Kingdom dweller, wandered into our world by chance. His behavior was quite unfroglike, his enthusiasm for human food being only a small part of it. I’d tried to put him back a few times when I was younger, even though I’d desperately wanted to keep him. For three successive Full Moons I’d suggested to him that he stay in Dancing Glade, but when I’d headed for home, there he’d been, on my shoulder as usual. Once I’d tried leaving him in the forest to find his own way back to the Other Kingdom. Only once. I’d walked away while he was dabbling in the stream, tears pouring down my cheeks. After a little he’d come hopping after me. I’d heard his silent voice, its tone full of reproach.
“Today feels odd, Gogu,” I said as we began to eat. “As if a whole new part of our lives is beginning. I don’t know what it is. It feels bigger than Father going away and us having to do things on our own. Even Cezar was different. He’s never spoken out in front of Uncle Nicolae like that, as if he knew better 45
than his own father and ours. And he looked so angry. He’s always angry these days. I’m starting to wonder if, one day, he might actually go through with his threats. Could he really damage the Other Kingdom? Would hatred give an ordinary man enough power for that?”
“That’s where it happened, you know. Just over there, near that little island with the birches growing on it. That’s where Costi drowned.” Picnic forgotten, I gazed down the stream to the shore of the Deadwash—living it again, the awful day neither Cezar nor I had been able to forget, not in ten whole years.
Three children were running through the woods. In front was Costi, his parents’ favorite, at ten years old already a leader, arrogant, impetuous, today set free from lessons for a whole month, and determined to wring every last bit of enjoyment out of it. His face was ablaze with excitement as he led his small expedition to the forbidden place where the special game was to be played. Cezar, a stolid eight-year-old, followed in his brother’s wake, trying to keep up, adoration in his solemn eyes. And running along behind—chest heaving, heart bursting with the thrill of being permitted to share this secret expedition with the big boys—there was I, five-year-old Jena, in danger of tripping over my own feet as I traversed the forest paths at top speed.
The game was called King of the Lake. The boys talked about it a lot, but this was the first time I’d been allowed to play. Tati and I had been staying at Varful cu Negur?a while Father was away on a buying trip. Today, Aunt was helping Tati to make a doll.
46
“We need a princess.” Costi had said this earlier, back at the house. “Or a queen.”
“We never had one before.” Cezar had sounded doubtful.
“I can be a princess.” I’d spoken up with all the confidence I could muster, which wasn’t much. In my eyes, Costi had god-like status: I hardly dared open my mouth in his presence. Cezar was intent on impressing his big brother and had little time for me. But the dazzling opportunity that was within my grasp had made me bold. “Or a queen.”
“You need special clothes,” Cezar had said dismissively.
“Costi’s got a ring. I’ve got a cloak. You can’t play without special clothes.”
“I’ve got a crown.” I had made it the day before, after I heard the boys planning their expedition—just in case. It had taken me all day: laboring with glue and pins, wire and beads, and scraps of braid from Aunt Bogdana’s sewing box. It was the most beautiful crown in the world, all sparkles and silver.
“A crown’s quite good,” Cezar had conceded.
Costi had gazed down at me. He was very tall; it was all too easy to remember that I was only half his age. “Think you can keep up, Your Majesty?” he’d asked me, his mouth twitch-ing at the corners. He’d looked as if he was trying not to smile.
“Of course,” I’d said, summoning a tone of bold assurance and lifting my chin. It had mostly been pretense, but it had worked.
“All right, then.” Costi’s permission had been given casually. Trembling with excitement, I’d fetched the crown and a little patchwork blanket from my bed that would make a color-ful cape for a monarch. And I’d followed my big cousins out into the woods.
47
Costi was wearing his family ring, a big silver one he’d been given at his christening as the eldest son and future master of Varful cu Negur?a. I knew he was only allowed to wear it on special occasions. In between, it was supposed to be locked away. Cezar had a cloak of silky fabric in purple, very grand, with fur around the edges. I wished I could have a turn with it.
Clad in our finery, we reached the shore of T?aul Ielelor, where willows bowed over the water like mournful, long-haired dryads. Why did the lake gleam so, when the sunlight barely penetrated the canopy of dark firs and tall pines? The surface was dotted with little islands. There was one that had its own soft wildflower carpet—pink, yellow, purple, blue—and on its highest point a miniature birch forest, each tree a little taller than my five-year-old self. Just by looking, I could feel the magic of it. Farther from the shore, mist clung close over the water. I imagined I could see shapes in it: dragons, fairies, monsters. My heart was thumping, and not just from the effort of keeping up with the boys.
Costi and Cezar had been here many times before, and their game had well-established rules. It started with
